Mind Prison
by Utashi
Summary: Sherlock has his "Mind Palace," a place where he stores information and withdraws into when he needs to think. Melody Holt has something similar, except from her mind there is no escape. There are too many things-nightmares and memories, lies and truths, and especially regrets-blocking the slick, blood-stained knob of the door.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Like everyone else, I watched Sherlock season 3 and fell in love with the show all over again and decided to write a fanfiction. Sherlock obviously is not mine, but all my OCs are, as well as most of the plot. Also, I apologize in advance for any formatting issues and/or other errors. I write using an app on my phone and then transfer it to the computer, so the content gets understandably jostled a bit in transition. Point them out to me, and I'll be happy to fix them! There's not really much else to say here except for enjoy and review to let me know what you think! Happy perusing!**

Chapter 1

Unlike the common man, Melody Holt did not find plane rides abrasive, nauseating, or tedious. Bach was in her ears, but an entirely different music was playing in her mind. The young woman was prone to spending prolonged periods of time within herself-remembering, reflecting, regretting-and the flight to England seemed a prime time to do just that. Always her thoughts traveled down the same dark road, so often so that in her mind she imagined it as a winding passage well worn by the heavy trudge of contemplation. Now, however, she thought of the person beside her. No, not the middle-aged man with an extreme case of obsessive compulsive disorder and an inferiority complex on her right, but the woman, three years Melody's junior, on her left. Her boyfriend had called her Eliza; others called her Liz or Lizzy. Regardless of what name she went by, Melody knew her by only one title: savoir. Lizzy had been her temporal and spiritual salvation three years ago, and she continued to be so now. She was in every way her opposite: short and light as porcelain, with rosy cheeks and childish eyes, to Melody's taller than ladylike height and skin dark as honey swirled with molasses, with obdurate cheeks and timeless brown eyes; simple and mundane, but kindhearted, to Melody's extraordinary complexity and heart of dubious intent. But despite their differences, Melody inevitably developed an attachment to the hand that pulled her up from her vice, so they got on well.

Annoyance rose in Melody like bile when she felt Liza tap her on the arm, but she ignored the reflex and pulled out her earphones. Oh, how she abhored being disturbed.

"Were you even listening?" came Liza's innocent British droll.

"No." Melody's voice was reticent and cold in comparison, not out of any malice toward her friend but from a strangling hand of caprice that squeezed her heart and came and went as it pleased despite any and all attempts to remove it.

"I asked if you'd do it," Liza continued, unperturbed by Melody's abruptness, "just once, please."

Liza was a perfect angel, but when she was committed to any task she could be a real devil nagging upon one's shoulder. "I've told you before, I'm never doing it again."

She poked out her cherry-glossed lips. "Why? Just do it for fun! Find me a cute boyfriend or something." She pointed to a well-tailored man stepping down the aisle on his way out of the restroom. "What about him?"

Melody sighed and gave the man a perfunctory glance just to appease her friend. "I wouldn't advise courting a man suffering simultaneously from a death in the family and extreme stress from overwork. . . Damn," Melody winced at the triumphant look on Liza's face. Hiding one's identity is difficult; suppressing a subconscious reflex is an entirely different ballpark.

"You don't have to be ashamed. I think being a psychologist is cool."

Melody laughed. Shame couldn't have been further from the truth. "I'm not a psychologist," she said. "Not anymore."

"You never did tell me why you quit." Liza goaded. The woman knew quite a lot of Melody's situation, but even after the state of depravation she had seen Melody in, there were some things she simply refused to share.

"My books have all been safely delivered, yes?" A small smile tugged at the corners of Melody's lips. She loved the little intricacies of their friendship, the way Liza could always be relied upon to understand the subtext of her words.

She threw up her hands, giggling. "Fine, don't tell me. And yes, your bloody books are here, so stop worrying."

Satisfied, Melody put her earphones back in. No music was playing, but sometimes she just enjoyed the way they dulled the intense throb of the outside world to a soft pulse. They were especially useful around Liza, for she lacked the rare gift of silence.

"Are you sure you don't want to stay with me?"

_And she tells me not to worry._ "I doubt your parents would approve of an ex-drug addict in the house."

That was clearly the end of that conversation. After 3 years, Liza was accustomed to Melody's blunt honesty, but the ex-psychologist could tell that it still bothered her. Bless her for having the heart to tolerate it, not to mention all of Melody's other idiosyncrasies.

Melody turned on Shostakovich and forced herself to relax into a fitful repose, praying as she drifted into oblivion that she did not dream of _them_ again.

* * *

Cars and people whizzed past beneath the cover of rain, and colored and patterned umbrellas swirled and twirled across the scene like lost balloons. The air was heavy and cold, but alive. Melody caught her first breath of London: intriguing, stimulating, suffocating, and she wanted more. The iced rain felt good stinging her cheeks, and she didn't even care that her already curly hair would frizz up from the water in the next 20 minutes. This city was a symphony she could listen to indefinitely, one that would dance across the score, and take her up in its arms and waltz with her, only to surprise her with a dip or a spin or a charming smile.

The two women said their goodbyes with a promise of meeting later, and they both called a cab. Melody loaded her suitcases into the trunk of the car and climbed into the back. "Baker Street, please," she said as she settled in to the slippery leather seat. Unable to reign in her inner psychiatrist, she studied the cabbie from the bridge between the two front seats. He was old, with shabby clothes and glasses sliding down his nose. A picture of children with someone noticeably cut out told Melody family problems, and that whomever was missing in the photo probably had taken the kids, but other than that she wouldn't be able to tell much about him without starting a conversation. Fortunately, the cabbie seemed more than willing to do that himself.

"Goin' to see Mr. Holmes?"

"No," Melody replied, somewhat cautiously, "I'm looking at rooms. Who is he?"

The cabbie smirked at her in the rearview mirror, and in that smile and in those eyes Melody saw hints of mental instability taunting her. "If you're stayin' at Baker Street, you'll know soon enough."

A red light stopped them, and the cabbie slammed on the breaks. Several bottles of pills rolled under the passenger seat with a clink. Melody picked one up. They were little white powdered capsules with flecks of pink and red, one to a bottle.

"My medication," he said. Melody found the explanation suspicious; why was it needed, unless he assumed she would think otherwise? _Trying to cover something up. Drugs, maybe._

Melody shrugged and put the bottles in the cup holder, sneaking one into her blazer pocket when he wasn't looking.

After a few more minutes of the silent drive, the cabbie pulled to a stop, slowly this time. "'ere's Baker Street. Help you with your luggage, miss?"

"No." She paid the man, retrieved her bags from the trunk, and stepped onto the safety of the crowded sidewalk as quickly as she could.

Melody knocked on the building door, trying her utmost to ignore the pill whose presence in her pocket burned like poison. It and the cabbie seemed to be hiding something beneath the pretense of normality, and her curiosity would not let her rest until she found out what it was. But that would have to wait, for unless she was mistaken, Melody heard someone coming down to open the door.

"Good afternoon." Melody greeted, trying to be as polite and as unlike her usual abrasive self as possible.

The woman smiled and motioned her inside. "You must be Melody Holt, here about 221A? I'm Mrs. Hudson, dear, nice to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine." Melody left her suitcases by the stairs and followed Mrs. Hudson up to 221A, listening to the woman's comforting chatter.

Dust bunnies hopped out of the room when Mrs. Hudson unlocked the apartment door, and Melody shooed them out of the way, stepping inside the living room. It smelled like all things shut up and old: moth balls and damp moisture, stuffy air and forgotten and rediscovered memories. Grime covered the two windows in the room, opposite the door, the hardwood floor was scuffed and discolored, and the wallpaper hung off the walls in strips like the leaning tower of Pisa. The tacky plaid sofa against the wall (the only piece of furniture in the room) was frayed and well-loved, but clean. The room was not exactly in the best condition, but it was a bubble of sensations all its own, and Melody loved it. Somehow, seeing the ghosts of residents past gave her a sense of comfort; it was at least one place in the world where she would never be alone.

"I do apologize for the state it's in. It's been _ages_ since anyone has lived here, but I'm sure we can get it cleaned up."

Melody shook her head. "Besides painting and the addition of furniture, it hardly needs any work at all. It's already beginning to feel like home," she smiled. "May I see the other rooms?"

Mrs. Hudson couldn't show her around the rest of the flat fast enough. The kitchen was in a slightly better state than the living room; it had a beautiful oak dining table, and all of the appliances were in surprisingly good condition. The two bedrooms would need to be repainted as well, but Melody didn't mind much, seeing as they both had nice, large beds. The bathroom in the master bedroom was clean and in working order, if dusty, but overall the apartment was very nice. It was a downsize from her living arrangements back in America, but then again, the salary of an orchestra conductor would also be a downsize from what she had in America.

"Mrs. Hudson, I really do love this place," Melody said, finding herself able to be surprisingly open with the woman.

She smiled, and the thousands of tiny wrinkles in her face seemed to smile as well and light up her face with a pure, contagious joy that Melody had never seen. In her life and especially in her work, she had seen many forms of depression, depravation, and pain, but never had she experienced such happiness. _This_, Melody decided, _is definitely the place to be. _

"I'm glad you like it, dear! But there's one more thing you ought to see before you make up your mind." Mrs. Hudson's face turned serious as she led Melody back out of the apartment and locked up.

Melody laughed. "I assure you, nothing will deter me from moving in now that I've seen this place."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "You'll change your mind once you meet the neighbors. Dr. Watson is as sweet as can be, but Mr. Holmes…"

Melody nearly tripped on the stairs in her surprise. It seemed that everyone except her knew of this Mr. Holmes! Just exactly who _was_ he, and what made him so special? Still, in the midst of her frustration, she had to admit she was more than a little excited at the prospect of yet another mystery.

Mrs. Hudson stopped on the landing of 221B and pushed open the unlocked door. "Boys, I'm coming in!" she called, "And I've got company!" She ushered Melody inside, following behind her.

Their apartment was well-decorated, but messy. Newspapers littered the parlor floor, as well as some books and other strange things ranging from clothes to a cane leaning (wobbling, really) haphazardly against the door. Most peculiar of all was the skull that sat perched on the fireplace. What on earth could that be for? And then there was that horrible yet almost familiar scent that she could not quite place yet.

A blond, mousy looking man reached for his cane and hobbled out of his armchair by the fireplace when he saw Melody come in. "Oh, hello. You're new," he said.

"I'm looking at the rooms upstairs, and I believe I may be your new neighbor." She held out her hand. "Melody Holt."

He shook it with more strength than she had given him credit for. "John. John Watson. I hope you'll decide to move in, God knows we could use another sane person around here."

"Surely you don't mean Mrs. Hudson, so where is the insane one?" Melody asked, looking around for the other man.

John laughed. "Make yourself at home. I'll go get him."

Mrs. Hudson had gone off to make tea and biscuits, so Melody had at least a few minutes to look around unwatched. Nosiness was an unsavory but necessary trait when one was a psychiatrist, and for better or for worse, that habit, among others, had never left her.

She wandered off into the kitchen, and found the same stench that had greeted her earlier, only in much stronger concentration. The table in the middle of the room was filled with scientific equipment and chemicals: a microscope, test tubes, beakers, flasks, even a ring stand and buret. The countertops were cluttered with much of the same, and when she peaked in the refrigerator, she found a bloody bag full of assorted toes. Dissatisfied with the results, she shut it and moved her exploration to the sink, where she found the cause of the horrible odor, and realized why it smelled so familiar.

Melody's investigation was cut short by the sound of footsteps. "Who are you?"

The sonorous baritone came from directly behind her, and Melody smirked. _Trying to startle me, are you, Mr. Holmes? _

She reached into the sink and grabbed the reagent bottle by the base, and slowly, with excessive care, put the cap back onto it, taking her time just to annoy him. "You know," she said at last, "you really shouldn't leave bromine sitting out in the open. It's bad chemistry." She set the bottle back in the sink and turned around, leaning with her back against the countertop.

As she expected, he was extremely close, but of course she was too stubborn to be the first to retreat. He was surprisingly well-dressed with dress shirt, suit, tie—the entire ensemble— and rather attractive, if she were interested in dating. His hair was as curly and as dark as hers, but Melody's was longer by just a hair, reaching the nape of her neck.

"Who _are _you, and why are you here?" His voice rose to a rumble, like a deafening plane or helicopter passing close overhead.

Melody shrugged. For some reason, she didn't want him to know anything about her. She wanted to be as much of a mystery to him as he was to her. A game, a stimulant, a distraction. That's what she was always searching for, and she read the same need on him. She knew brains inside and out, and she knew that they were both at the stage of determining whether or not the other was a suitable enigma. All arrogance aside, Melody knew that she was more than qualified.

"Maybe at my core I'm nothing but atoms, little more than the particles that compose me. Maybe I'm stardust and space debris and the ashes of galaxies. Am I my parents, with all their faults and fallacies? Or, am I the sum of all my thoughts and actions, the memories and experiences that overtime have accumulated on my _tabula rasa?_" Melody's lip quirked, the way it always did when she was in thought. "Do any of us really know who we are, Mr. Holmes, let alone why we are here?"

The man rolled his eyes. "An eloquent speech, but you still have not answered my question."

Melody rose to her full height, tall, but not tall enough for Mr. Holmes. She reached only to his shoulders, but she compensated for having to look up to meet his eyes with a defiant jut of her chin. "My name is Melody. I'm moving in upstairs."

"Boring." He sighed, and left the kitchen.

Melody was not in the least bit offended. Honestly, she was just thinking the same thing about him. Other than the strange crap lying about the house, Mr. Holmes was utterly a disappointment. He was far from insane, and even farther from interesting. _Oh, well, at least there's still the pill, _she thought, putting her hand in her coat pocket to make sure it was still there.

"I've brought goodies!" Melody heard Mrs. Hudson ascending the steps. "Where's Melody?"

"Here." She walked back into the living room, taking a seat on the couch. Really, she would have liked to just leave now and finalize her apartment, but seeing as Mrs. Hudson obviously regarded the two men very highly, she couldn't be impolite. Yet.

Mrs. Hudson cleared a space at the desk and set a tray of cookies and cups of tea down. "Help yourself, Melody."

She shook her head. "I'll just have tea, thank you. I'm not hungry at the moment."

Unfortunately, her stomach thought otherwise. Neither Mr. Holmes nor Mrs. Hudson paid her rowdy stomach any attention, but John was giving her a serious look. She knew exactly what it meant, but of course she pretended she didn't.

"What? It's just a Pavlovian response. I normally lunch at this hour, but I've already eaten."

John Watson did not look convinced. It wasn't like he could prove anything without a medical examination (which was certainly _not_ happening), so why did he care? There were clinical things Melody could see about him, but she wasn't his psychiatrist, and it wasn't her business, so she let it alone. Couldn't he have the decency to do the same?

Melody reached for a cup of tea to calm herself down, and in the process her scarf slipped from its tight noose around her neck. She hurried to tie it back in place, hoping that no one noticed. Mr. Holmes did.

He rose from his chair in one lithe motion, noticeably more graceful than John had been before, and walked over to the couch with a saccharine smile. "I am _so _sorry," he gushed, "it is unforgivably rude of me to have forgotten to take your coat. Please, allow me." He held out his arms, expecting Melody to stand and shrug off her coat.

_Bullshit._ Melody had known children who were better actors and liars than him. "Thank you, but I'm fine. It's actually a bit chilly in here to me."

Mr. Holmes looked down at her with hard, blue eyes. "You're perspiring."

"Perhaps I'm nervous," Melody shot back.

"With a perfectly steady body? I think not. No, you're hiding something."

Melody crossed her legs and sipped her tea, indeed the exact image of ease Mr. Holmes had pointed out before. "Because I refuse to remove my coat?"

He shook his head, curls bouncing adorably around his face. "You wear that coat at the expense of your own personal comfort. And your scarf, wool, yes? That is clearly an outdoor scarf meant for the cold, and you are still wearing it indoors. Of course that could be sentiment, but you are not a sentimental woman. How do I know? People frequently pass down items of familial importance, especially jewelry, and I see none on you." Mr. Holmes smirked at the end of his little tirade, egoism leaking from his lips like the remains of a delicious meal.

Mrs. Hudson and John were silent throughout the entirety of the conversation, but the apologetic and embarrassed looks upon their faces relayed more than their words could have: I'm sorry, he can't help it, it's in his nature, don't punch him, please. Melody smiled to reassure them that she was fine, and they seemed to relax.

"Well, Mr. Holmes-" Melody began, only to be interrupted by the orchestral ringtone of her cell phone. She let it ring, not even bothering to check to see who it was.

"Aren't you going to answer that?" He demanded, pacing back and forth across the floor, hands behind his back.

"No."

"Why?"

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson sighed, apparently fed up at last. "Leave the poor girl alone!"

Melody could have laughed. Little did Mrs. Hudson know that she was actually entertained by this conversation. "When facing an adversary of unknown or superior strength, it is good strategy not to divide one's army. My mind is my army, Mr. Holmes, and I don't like to be distracted."

He said nothing, but as he turned to finish his last stride across the room toward his armchair, she could see a small upturn of his lips. He crossed his legs at the ankles and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. "Finish your sentence." He tacked on a begrudging "please" after a glare from John.

Melody played with the frills on her scarf. _Not sentimental, huh?_ "I admit that that was an impressive deduction, but I will not tell you if it was correct."

"Of course I was correct," he snapped.

"Why don't you deduce something else about me, and I'll be the judge of that."

Melody was stepping into deep waters, but she was not afraid to drown. It was not so bad, once you got used to it. The darkness, the desperation suffocating and burning your lungs, the water dragging you down no matter how hard you kicked your legs. Melody had lived that way for three years, and at some point she had simply given up kicking and allowed herself to sink to the bottom. That part, the shame of defeat mingled with the pleasure of giving up, felt the best.

Mr. Holmes stared at her for a while, his eyes darting here and resting there, reading Melody's body like its own language. It was enthralling to watch him work, to see where he looked and wonder what he saw beyond it, to feel the weight of his intelligent gaze look at her the way no other human did. This man's mind was truly a gift.

After no more than a couple minutes, but what felt like an eternity beneath those eyes, Mr. Holmes spoke. "You are from America, Massachusetts judging by your accent. You left because you felt your parents were smothering you, or because you had a falling out. The twenties is a rebellious age, so either is likely. You are clearly watching your weight, probably for relationship or self-esteem reasons. You are well-read, and, lastly, as stated, you are hiding something, perhaps your identity. Don't want your parents to find you?"

Melody couldn't help laughing at the smug look that had been steadily creeping its way onto Mr. Holmes' face. Unlike Melody, however, he was not amused.

"Why are you laughing?"

Once she had composed herself, she said, "With the exception of me being from Massachusetts, everything you deduced about me is wrong."

From the twisted-up expression forming on Mr. Holmes' face and the stunned silence of John and Mrs. Hudson, Melody could tell this did not happen often. Now would be a good time to take her leave, she felt.

She stood, setting her tea cup on the desk. "As much as I would enjoy watching your impending stroke, I really must finish discussing business with Mrs. Hudson. Goodbye all." She paused halfway out the door. "And, John? Might I suggest taking up a new hobby? Something manly and intense like shooting or skydiving."

He raised an eyebrow at the odd suggestion. "Um, why?"

"Because you are not adjusting to civilian life as well as you and your therapist pretend."

* * *

**Author's Note: I hate to leave it there, but there was really no other place to cut it. Please let me know what you think, and see you next chapter!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: I just wanted to say a few things here for clarification: Just for the sake of simplicity, John and Sherlock have already been living together for a while even though the beginning of the story is set during A Study in Pink. What else... Oh, I'm trying to keep Sherlock and Mycroft as close to in character as I can, so please let me know how I'm doing! Any creative criticism about Melody would be appreciated as well. Also, anyone want to guess what her "medical condition" is? Leave me a review with your guess, and you'll find out if you were right in a few chapters. I suppose that's about it. Enjoy the story, and don't forget to review (many thanks to those who have)! **

* * *

Chapter 2

It was well past six in the evening by the time Mrs. Hudson finished finalizing all the minutiae regarding her apartment, and by that time Melody wanted nothing more than to just sleep for the next day and a half. But, a promise was a promise, so somehow she found the strength to lift herself from the couch and go see Liza.

When she passed the door of 221B, still open, she saw John and Mr. Holmes lounging in their respective armchairs, both clicking silently away on their laptops, each completely oblivious of the other. She could not help but think that they had formed one of those rare and intimate friendships, one like hers and Liza's. She smiled, walking quietly past them down the stairs. They were definitely good for each other.

It was still raining outside, and much colder than it had been earlier in the day. Melody pulled her blazer collar up around her neck and hailed a cab. She thanked her stars that the cabbie was not the same old man from before and settled back into the seat. Liza's house was only a ten minute walk from here, but in this weather it was more than worth the funds to just take a cab. Besides that, she didn't yet feel comfortable walking alone in London yet, especially at night. She wasn't afraid, of course, (she knew how to protect herself), but she'd rather not get lost just to cut costs.

The cabbie pulled up to Liza's house, Melody paid him, and she scurried from the street to the shelter of the porch, ringing the knocker. Liza came to the door, accompanied by her guardian German Shepherd, Robert. Melody scratched him behind the ears, stepping inside. She did not take off her scarf of her coat.

"I almost thought you weren't coming." Liza said, migrating to the large, open living room and turning on the television.

Melody all but fell onto the couch, thankful to give her jet-lagged body a rest. "I spent longer looking at the apartment than I expected, and I imagine I fell asleep for a good half an hour after that."

Liza disappeared into the kitchen to grab drinks and reappeared with water for herself and an energy drink for Melody. "Well, you've got good timing. My parents went out to dinner. So, how's the apartment?"

Melody set the Monster down on the coffee table, unopened. Those things had way too many calories, and were disgusting besides. She'd probably just crash when the sugar wore off, anyway.

"Needs a bit of work, but it's nice, and so is the rent. I really appreciate you tipping me off about it."

Liza smiled, nudging Melody. "Where would you be without me?"

_Dead_, she thought, but didn't speak her mind. Instead, she just laughed and poked her back, in the sides where she was ticklish.

"You remember you've got that job interview tomorrow, right?" Liza nagged, sometimes more like a mother than a friend.

"Yes, at that family owned orchestra studio, I know. I should be home preparing for that, and _sleeping_," she grumbled.

"At least stay until the news is over." Liza said.

Melody relented, and the blonde turned up the television. She was only half-listening to the stories and weather reports that reeled across the screen, and she was nearly asleep when one story in particular caught her drowsy attention. A wealthy business man had been found dead in his office, apparently from suicide. Wasn't that a strange explanation, though? Why would someone with so much money kill themselves? Work or relationship problems? Still, there was something not right with the whole business, and Melody wanted to look into it more. She committed the dead man's name to memory, intending to do a bit of research on him later.

Now, she needed to go home and get some sleep for her interview the next afternoon.

"I'll call you later," Melody said on her way out the door. "Thank you again, for everything."

Liza waved from the front porch as Melody called a cab and mingled into the damp darkness.

When Melody returned to Baker Street, 221B's door was closed, as was Mrs. Hudson's. She doubted they had gone to bed this early, but she was too tired to care at present. She dragged herself up the stairs, took a quick shower, and dressed for bed. Finally able to remove her coat, she cleaned out the pockets, throwing cash, pocket lint, and the pill bottle into her still packed suitcase, where it would be forgotten until morning. Her scarf was thrown onto the pile as well. The mess bothered her, but she kicked it from her mind, turned out the lights, and slid between the clean sheets Mrs. Hudson had apparently provided while she was out. Melody fell asleep immediately, and she dreamed.

_Christmas music drifted gaily throughout the house, and Melody could see morning snow falling outside through the windows. She was in the living room, but it was empty. The live Christmas tree was beautifully decorated with hand-painted ornaments from her childhood and a star on the top, all the presents still perfectly wrapped. Her vision flashed, the events of a day spanning little more than a second. It was nighttime now, and police and ambulance sirens blasted right outside the front door. The tree had been knocked over on its side, its ornaments rolling all over the hardwood floor. There was blood spattered on the walls, pooled on the otherwise pristine wood floor, even the ornaments and the tree were bloody. Without looking, she knew the rest of the rooms looked similar. She knew what had happened here, but her mind made her relive it anyway._

_Time skipped again to earlier that same day, before the incident. Even though it was Christmas day, Melody was at work. She was too devoted to her patients to take the day off, even though it was her own practice and she scheduled her appointments. She was working with Will that day, and she was glad to find that he was progressing well. Still, she couldn't help but feel uneasy, even worried. Not about Will, but something else that had been bothering her for some time now. She didn't want to believe it, and so as she had been doing for all these months, she ignored it and shoved it to the back of her mind. She owed her focus solely to her patients, not her own insignificant problems. _

_After finishing up her appointment with Will, she finished up working with the rest of her patients and left work early for the day. Her parents had been begging her to come visit them for the holidays, please, Nate was coming, too. She would have liked to stay home and just get some rest, but she figured she better make the 45 minute drive to her parents' house or she would catch hell for not coming for the rest of the year. Her older brother Nate was already there when she arrived, and so was his girlfriend Liza, too. Melody's boyfriend was out of state visiting his own parents in the hospital, so he was absent. _

_They talked until Melody's mother finished making Christmas dinner, and then they all ate gathered around the gorgeous oak dining table in the dining room. There was laughter, jokes, and general happiness among all present, and the little worry Melody had had on her mind all day was gone. Liza couldn't stay for unwrapping presents, so it was just Melody, her mom, dad, and brother in the living room around the Christmas tree. They never got to open the presents._

_Nate said something, and Melody screamed…_

Melody woke, and everything was gone. Her parents' house was replaced with her own familiar apartment, and a loud banging on the door replaced the sound of Christmas carols and screams. The ex-psychiatrist fumbled through her suitcase for her bathrobe and scarf, tying them both tightly around herself so that none of her body except for her toes was expose. She didn't care that her hair was frizzy and spiked up to kingdom come when she answered the door.

She didn't know who she had been expecting, but she was relieved to find that it was just John.

"Are you okay?"

Melody shuffled uncomfortably on her feet. Dear God, she hoped she hadn't been sleep-talking. "Yes. Why?"

"You were screaming." John said, gently.

She shrugged, and said nothing, her hand instinctively pulling her scarf closer around her neck.

"Night terrors?" he asked. His voice was sympathetic. Of course it was, why was she surprised? Despite his innocent face, Melody could tell that John Watson had seen his share of things as an army doctor.

She nodded.

John clapped her on the shoulder. It was oddly comforting. "Bring you some coffee?"

She nodded again. "Be down in a minute."

Melody did not say thanks or goodbye as she closed the door. Her voice failed her. She didn't have time for that now though; her interview was at 11, so that left her about an hour and a half to get ready and take a cab. She went through her morning routine without much thought, relying mostly on muscle memory. She dressed in formal business attire—a black pants suit, with a fancy white dress shirt underneath, her trusty blazer, and, of course, her scarf. She didn't wear makeup—she never did—or jewelry, but she did at least slip on some heels. After fluffing her curls, putting a white pearl headband on, and grabbing her violin case and sheet music, she was ready to head downstairs to 221B. She hoped Mr. Holmes was in, for she desperately needed a distraction right now.

The door was open, so Melody let herself in. The parlor was slightly cleaner than it had been yesterday, and there was no longer the scent of bromine. Mr. Holmes was in the chair reading the paper, still in his pajamas, and John was in the kitchen.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes," she greeted.

He didn't even look up from his newspaper.

"Don't mind him." John said as he came out of the kitchen bearing two cups of blessed coffee, handing one to Melody. "He gets this way."

She thanked him and took her place on the couch from the day before. The steaming warmth flowing into her body from the mug seemed to chase away all her night's fears, and her weariness as well.

"You're all dressed up. Where are you going?"

Mr. Holmes answered for Melody instead. "Job interview, clearly, John! Can't you see at all?"

John pointed his mug at the other man. "Did anyone invite you to this conversation?" To Melody, he said, "Where are you applying?"

She finished off the last of her coffee before replying. It was more bitter than she liked it, but she wasn't at liberty to complain. "An orchestra studio not far from here. A friend recommended it to me. And,"—Melody checked the time on her phone—"I'd better get going, or else I'll be late. Thanks for the coffee, John!"

Melody left the mug on the coffee table, dashed out the door, and hailed a cab. After the first time she'd hailed a taxi, she always made a point of inspecting the cab driver before she got in, just to make sure that she never ended up with that sketchy old man again. He was bound to notice that one of his pills was missing, and she did not want to be around when he did.

The studio was a short drive away, and once she finally got used to navigating in this city, she planned to start walking to work. The building was nice, multiple stories, but kind of old-fashioned in its architecture. The fact that it was next to a bookstore and coffee shop more than made up for its rustic look.

When she opened the door, she received the best welcome any business could have offered: the sound of music. There were woodwinds and brass, strings, and pianos; any instrument Melody could have dreamed of was there. Psychology may have appealed to her brain, but music had captured her heart.

She found her way to the main office, where a middle aged man with thinning hair and an endearingly old fashioned sweater vest was sitting at a large desk doing paperwork. A knock on the open door caught his attention.

He looked up, blue-gray eyes curious yet kind. "How may I help you?" There was a twinge of French in his voice when he spoke.

"I'm Melody Holt, here for a job interview."

Melody watched his mind work through the movement of his eyes: blank confusion, then darting movements back and forth indicating thought, and then recognition. "Oh, yes," he said, standing and brushing himself off. "I'm Mr. Mathieu, the owner of Fond de l'Etang. Please, come in, and do excuse all the papers. My employees call me a micromanager."

Melody laughed, sitting down in one of the chairs in front of his desk. "I understand. I used to be that way." _Before the incident..._

Mr. Mathieu shuffled through the papers on his desk until he pulled out Melody's resume that she had sent a few days before leaving for London. "Your qualifications are a bit below par, but honestly I prefer assessing actual ability to these flimsy useless things. Shall we go to one of the music rooms and have, say, a little audition?"

Melody picked up her violin case and sheet music and followed Mr. Mathieu to one of the empty music rooms. It was spacious, and fully furnished with music stands and chairs for the musicians and a platform and podium for the conductor.

"I know sight reading can be a little intimidating, especially for auditions, so do you have any piece in mind?" Mr. Mathieu asked, taking a seat on the platform in the front of the room.

"I'd like to play a piece I composed myself, if that's all right."

She handed him a copy of her music and prepared her violin. She preferred playing standing, and from memorization.

"Whenever you're ready," he said with an encouraging smile.

Melody assumed playing position, closed her eyes, and began. Her violin was her heart, her bow, its mouth, her music, its words. The song was aching and beautiful; every note her bow drew from the dredges of her bleeding heart. She could feel all the pinpricks, pokes, and pulses of its pain in the sharps, and taste the manifold flavors of its emotions in the flats. Song and sensation coalesced into one in the same, all feelings blended into one, different in nothing but name. It was the music of the heavens, and she was merely its vessel. The stardust within her, rekindled, burst once again into hot burning flames, and ignited in her searing sensations that before had been only dormant ashes. Tears leaked from her blind eyes in the heat of her emotion, the force of which made her very core tremble. But, like the hottest of stars, she could not sustain herself for long. The song was over, and the remnants of the heavens within her fell back to stardust, where would they would lie in wait for the time when they could rise again.

Coming out of a song was like crashing back to reality at the end of a drug high. Both experiences left her extremely exhausted, yet craving-_needing-_more. When she opened her eyes, it took her a moment to remember who and where she was. Her eyes were wet, and her body burned and shook all over as though it were experiencing withdrawal. For a few seconds, she couldn't even breathe. Melody fell back into her chair, clutching at her violin until all the intensity had passed.

"I'm sorry." She found herself apologizing without knowing why. "It's been a very long time since I've played."

Mr. Mathieu looked just as frazzled and unable to speak as her. He recovered more quickly than Melody had, though. "Goodness, wow, that was . . . I feel I have to hold my tongue, for any praise I could offer would merely be an injustice." He handed Melody her sheet music back. "With talent like yours, it would be my humble honor to have you working here."

Melody's lips exploded into a grin that hurt her face but heated her heart. She was was ecstatic that she could scarcely keep herself from crying again. A string of a thousand "thank you"s gushed from her mouth, and Mr. Mathieu laughed, just as excited as she was.

"Let's return to my office and finish discussing all the technicalities."

* * *

An hour later, Melody was exiting Fond de L'Etang with a skip in her step. Melody would be teaching violin, flute, and piano classes at the studio for children and adults alike, and Mr. Mathieu had also hinted that he would be more than glad for her to help conduct some of the concerts they routinely put on for a bonus. Already she couldn't wait for the end of the weekend so she could start work bright and early Monday morning. Maybe she'd enjoy a much needed break for the rest of her Friday, and then spend the remainder of the weekend sprucing up her apartment.

It was unseasonably nice outside, and sunny (by London standards), so Melody decided to make the ten minute walk back to Baker Street. She even hummed a little tune along the way, swinging her violin case lightly in her arms. When she was within sight of the apartments, she noticed an expensive black car parked out front. Maybe Mrs. Hudson or one of the boys had a visitor over.

The back seat window rolled down as Melody passed by on the way to the door. She kept walking until a feminine voice stopped her.

"Melody Holt." It said, with complete certainty of her identity.

Curious, Melody walked back to the car and peered in the window. She felt relatively safe since only an idiot would think to kidnap her in broad daylight with so many witnesses. The woman to whom the voice belonged was texting rapidly on her smartphone, and only when she finished did she look up.

"Get in the car."

Ever one to tempt danger, Melody smirked. "Not without a convincing reason. And, before you try it, a physical threat is _not_ a convincing reason. I know multiple forms of self-defense."

The woman in the car looked amused. "That's adorable. In the real world, information makes people much more cooperative than force. And trust me, Ms. _Vance,_ my boss has a lot of information on you." She leaned her head out the window, staring Melody in the eyes. "I imagine you want to keep that information hidden, so I suggest you _get in the car."_

Hearing that name alerted Melody to the severity of her present situation. Internally, her mind teetered on the edge of panic, but she could not let them see. She could not allow her army to be compromised, she had to stay calm, she had to stay focused.

The woman opened the back seat door, and Melody slid in beside her. The interior of the car smelled meticulously clean, everything as shiny and perfect as if it were new. Melody sure that the windows were tinted darker than was legal because when she tried to look outside, she couldn't see a damn thing. A sliding glass panel, also tinted, separated the back seat from the front, so she couldn't see out of the windshield, either. Good God, just who was this woman's boss? It certainly couldn't be any law-abiding , well-intentioned citizen if they were being this secretive.

Melody could have driven herself mad guessing at who they were and what they wanted, but that would have only put her at a further disadvantage. Instead, she withdrew inside her mind and meditated, using some of the exercises she had taught her own patients to work through when they were stressed or anxious. Soon, she had tuned out the mental buzz of her worries and the rest of the world around her, entering a state of pseudo-peace. Still, fake tranquility was better than none at all, and maybe she could tell herself enough lies to quell her raging mind and heart.

How much time passed between the beginning of the drive and the woman telling her that they had arrived, Melody could not tell. She stepped outside and scrutinized her surroundings, finding them to be totally unexpected. Other than a sketchy warehouse, there was nothing but endless fields of dead grass and weeds. The scene was stranger than anything Melody could have conjured up, but when the woman motioned toward the building, she held up her chin and with a steel heart and stubborn eyes went forward to meet whatever awaited her in the warehouse.

Inside, it was cool and spacious, and Melody's heels clicked on the stone floor as she walked, giving away her presence. She could see little more than a foot in front of her, so she used her hands to feel for a wall and anchored herself to its safety. When she stopped walking and the blood stopped rushing in her ears, she could hear another pair of footsteps, click, click, clicking across the cavernous room, louder, louder, loudening as they came near, near, nearer.

The footsteps stopped in front of her, and all was silent. Melody did not move, but during that inaction, her senses were observing, her brain was working. She smelled the aroma of cologne and starch wafting off of him, heard his quick, uneven inhaling, and felt his cool, minty breath blowing above her head. Now she knew that he was tall, taller than her, wealthy, probably a business a man going by the state of his unexercised body. Good, that was good. What else? Should she start a conversation? No, better not, wait for him to make his move, it'll reveal his personality...

His arm brushed the curls beside her left ear on its way to the wall against she was presently leaning, and her body drew itself taut as a rubber band about to snap. Perhaps she would.

The lights flicked on in the warehouse, both blinding and illuminating. She squinted, but could not afford to close her eyes nor allow them time to adjust. Just as Melody had hoped, waiting for him to make the first move revealed more about him. It was obvious that he wanted her ill-acclimated and off guard, and that screamed of a power complex. Whether it stemmed from an attempt to compensate a real or imagined failing, or from arrogance, she could not yet tell.

When her eyes adjusted, she found the subject of her musings standing, well, looming rather, as his hand was still beside her head on the wall, in front of her. He was well dressed for a potential criminal, kidnapper, murderer, and/or mafia ring leader. Did mafia bosses even wear three piece suits? That was not even to mention the golden pocket watch chain hanging from his vest, or the expensive umbrella he twirled on the floor with his other hand. Everything about him screamed office worker, and a high up one at that.

Melody looked into his eyes, trying to discern his mental processes, and found that they were familiar, inscrutable and freezingly blue. Everything he did reminded her of a more dramatic yet mature version of Mr. Holmes, but that must have been mere coincidence. Surely he would have mentioned a brother... wouldn't he? It was of course possible that they were estranged, but even so. Two of those exquisite minds? That would be too great a gift to the world.

They stared at one another, openly culling all the information they could gather based on what they could see. Melody was somewhat at a lost without a conversation, but once more, she waited for his move. It was not long in coming.

"Hello, Ms. Holt." What his smile lacked in emotion was more than reimbursed in politesse. "I am Mycroft Holmes."

_Well, that was unexpected._ So there _were_ two of them. Oh, God, Melody's inner psychologist was going to have a field day. But, that would have to wait.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of being forcibly detained on this fine afternoon?" Sometimes Melody just couldn't keep herself from being a sarcastic ass, even when her safety appeared to hang in the balance.

Mycroft's next smile was sardonic and short, less fake than the first, but still very far from real. _Imagine all the beautiful little compartments in his mind_, she thought before she could restrain herself. She was doing a poor job of keeping her army together.

"Well," Mycroft sneered, puffing out his chest a bit, "as you deigned not to answer your mobile, you left me with few options. Apologies." He didn't even make an effort to be sincere.

"You were the one calling me yesterday?" Melody had planned on calling the number back after she left 221B, only to find that it was private.

Mycroft inclined his head in a refined version of a nod.

"Perhaps you should not have blocked your number then. _Apologies_ if I was naturally suspicious."

Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the floor, sighing. "Women. Must you all be so irrational?"

Melody gritted her teeth, fury bursting forth inside her. How many times had she heard the likes of his insult, or worse? And yet each evoked her ire as much as the last.

She pushed it aside. "Everything of import is in the mind, Mr. Holmes, not the genitalia."

His smirk did nothing to help her forget the slight. "I am well cognizant, Ms. Holt."

The words were civil enough, but Melody did not at all like their implication. "I would _love_ to give you a piece of my 'irrational' mind right now."

"Are you certain you have any to spare?"

Melody closed her eyes, breathing out through her nose and mentally cleansing herself even though she wanted nothing more than to sink down to her basest instincts and murder the man.

"Ms. Holt, do open your eyes," Mycroft said, tone more pleasant than before but not exactly placating.

"If you would like to continue with your string of slights, I may inform you that I do not need them to listen."

She thought she heard him mutter something like "predictably stubborn," but she didn't quite trust her mind in this state.

"You must have been veraciously angry, to have not noticed what I was doing."

Curiosity pried open Melody's eyelids. It took her little more than seconds to click everything in place, and Mycroft must have noticed, for the corner of his lips quirked in something close to approval.

"Yes, yes, very clever, but why?"

Mycroft twirled his umbrella. "Why have you twice waited for me to initiate our encounter?"

Melody could have slapped herself in the head. _This is what happens when you neglect to prepare your army._

"Care to share what you unearthed?"  
Mycroft stepped closer, never releasing Melody's wide eyes. No man had been this close to her in three years, and she felt the insuppressible urge to flee.

"Another time, perhaps," he whispered, and backed away. "Now, we have business to discus."

Melody wanted to laugh, but felt it wouldn't be appreciated in present company. "I don't make a habit of conducting business in sketchy warehouses."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "If I were to tell you that you have no input in the matter?"

Melody smirked, twirling out from beneath Mycroft's arm. "I would rejoin that you are a liar. You took the time from your clearly important"-she waved her hand at his suit in explanation-"schedule to have me detained. I doubt you would let me escape without getting what you wanted, unless I am very much mistaken about your power complex."

Mycroft sighed. "You are as intelligent as I had feared. What is your preferred choice of venue, then?"

Melody smiled with all the innocence she could muster. "You're taking me to lunch."

* * *

Melody suspected that Mycroft Holmes never did anything halfway, at least that was the impression she received when they pulled up at a profusely expensive looking restaurant. She hadn't even been totally serious about going to lunch; she just wanted to leave that damnable warehouse. Be careful what you wish for, and all that. Oh well, at least now there were witnesses. Between the two of them, murder was not entirely out of the question. Melody didn't know who she was afraid to trust more: him, or herself.

Mycroft walked around the car to open her door, but Melody made sure she got out on her own before he reached it. She was fiercely adamant on the subject of independence.

The man gave an imperceptible shake of head, but said nothing and led the way inside. "Reservation for two," he said to the woman at the register.

"When did you have time to make reservations?" Melody whispered as the woman showed them their seats.

Mycroft only smiled.

Either Mycroft had rented out the entire second floor, or they had just missed the lunch hour. Given her limited scope of knowledge of the man, both options seemed possible. The waiter left menus with them and bowed out of the room.

"You seriously need to work on your power complex." Melody said, watching the man and disregarding the menu in front of her.

"I haven't the faintest idea what you mean." He replied, crossing his legs.

Melody gave him her best "don't screw with me" look. She knew that it was not just likely but nearly certain that he had brought her to such an expensive restaurant just to unnerve her.

"It's completely out of hand."

Mycroft raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow. _"Mine?_ What of yours?"

Melody raised her menu in front of her face like a barrier and didn't speak again until the waiter returned.

"What will you have?" she asked, placing glasses of iced water and baskets of rolls on the table.

"Salad," they answered in unison, and exchanged looks. _Is Mycroft . . . dieting?_ Melody wanted to giggle. Somehow, he seemed too refined for such things.

The waiter nodded, and left them. Melody sat more rigidly than she had before, anticipating the conversation to come. If John had noticed, then surely Mycroft would . . .

The question that actually came out of Mycroft's mouth was unexpected, and even more unpleasant than the topic Melody had in mind.

"Will you not remove your scarf and coat?"

"No." Melody hoped her tone would dissuade him from going down this road.

Nothing, she learned, dissuaded Mycroft Holmes.

"Those are outdoor garments, and they do not have a place at the dinner table."

Melody met his gaze with surprising evenness. "I will not remove them."

Mycroft smirked at her, placing a hand on the table and standing. "Then, I _will_."

Melody stood to meet him as he walked around the table. She held her arms at her sides, tiny little hands balled into fists.

Mycroft used his height to his advantage, stepping as close as the border between polite and socially unacceptable would allow. "Give them to me." He commanded, his voice low and powerful.

Melody stood her ground. "I won't."

"I believe _can't _would be a more apt word."

And with that, he grabbed Melody's wrists in one hand and used the other to remove her scarf. The air that rushed in to meet her bare neck was cold and stinging because it was filled with shame and terror. She tried to cover her neck with the collar of her coat, but Mycroft forced that off of her too and returned to his seat, placing them both on the back of her chair where she could not get to them.

Melody quaked with embarrassment and indignation. "How dare you . . ."

Mycroft sighed. "Please tell me you aren't going to weep over spilled milk-or, in your case, spilled blood."

Her hands ached to feel the red hot sting that slapping him would bring.

"I've seen your hospital report, and the crime scene photographs. That scarf hid no surprises from me. I know about the whole business, Ms. Vance."

Resigned to accept the insurmountable intellect and might of the man before her, Melody sank back into her seat.

"Don't tell your brother. Please." she said quietly.

"He will deduce it on his own soon enough. And your-"

"No need to say it."

"In denial?" Mycroft quipped.

"Perhaps I was, until a certain military doctor made his diagnosis quite clear."

What didn't make sense to Melody was how Mycroft and even John had noticed, while Sherlock had not. Did he really believe she was dieting?

"Does your brother lie often?" Melody asked.

Mycroft looked at her strangely, but nonetheless answered her question. "When it behooves him to do so, I suppose."

Melody sighed. _Between the two of them I feel I am caught in a spider's web . . . and yet I still cannot leave them well enough alone._ Already her anger with Mycroft had faded. There was nothing she could have done to prevent him from finding out, but she would be damned if anyone else learned of it.

The waiter brought them their salads, but neither of them were really interested in eating. "What's this business that you felt compelled to kidnap me to discuss?"

Mycroft made a face of distaste. "My brother."

Well, that hardly warranted being taken to a shady warehouse and then out to lunch. "What about him?"

"Do you plan to continue your association with him?"

What business was that of his? "I plan to keep staying in Baker Street, but I fail to see how this holds relevance for you."

"I like to know the nature of the company he keeps. I worry. Constantly."

_Power complex indeed. _"Well, let me assure you that my presence will be nothing but a mundane part of his life." As much as she lied otherwise, Melody was a tad bitter at having been called "boring."

Mycroft clicked his teeth. "Mundane is most certainly not the word for you. You are a sea bass in my world otherwise filled with hopelessly inferior gold fish."

Melody found his statement so absurd and bizarre that a chuckle escaped her lips. "Was that a compliment?"

"Merely a fact, Ms. Holt. If I find you tolerable, then imagine Sherlock's fascination with you. Therefore, I must warn you, for both of your sakes: it would be best if you become as unobtrusive as possible, since you will, of course, insist on staying."

That was not a lifestyle Melody could lead. She craved action and stimulation as much as an adrenaline addict. It was an inherent part of her life, one she could not or would not remove. "I can handle myself," she said.

Mycroft looked like he wanted to laugh. "Your three year drug record says otherwise, but that is beside the point. It took me little more than a couple of choice words to ignite your ire this afternoon. Sherlock is more dim than I, but he can undoubtedly do the same, and unlike me he has no regard for the social graces or for boundaries.

"Now, that being said, do you think can you handle Sherlock?"

Melody rolled her eyes. Mycroft was indeed the more dramatic of the two. "I wish you would discard the notion that I am a porcelain toy. I will handle dealing with Sherlock, and I will handle you as well, and if I scrape a knee or two then I will put a band-aid on. Relax. If we're done here, I'll pay the check." Of course Melody didn't have that much money, but she figured it was time to do a bit of goading of her own.

Mycroft seemed to go pale at the thought. "You will do no such thing."

Melody reaching for her purse beneath her chair. "I insist."

"I cannot allow you to do that."

Melody put her purse on her lap, smiling. "Of course not. By the way, you might want to take a peak in the mirror. I think your power complex is showing."

Mycroft gave her a "really?" look, placing a check on the table.

"Still think I can't handle the Holmes brothers?" she mouthed.

The man actually smiled a little, handing Melody back her coat and scarf. Mycroft, being detained elsewhere, walked her out to the car before calling another for himself.

He looked down a Melody as she slid into the back, his hand on the top of the door. "Your psychiatrist is wrong, you know. The fault is not yours to keep."


End file.
